


baby you got me tied down

by lostlenore



Series: used to sing about being free (now he's changed his mind) [2]
Category: Hockey RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Crack, Cryptozoology, Hockey Gods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-08 12:33:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10386747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostlenore/pseuds/lostlenore
Summary: The one where Taylor Hall makes a deal with the (Jersey) Devil.





	1. who's that shadow holding me hostage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ionthesparrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ionthesparrow/gifts), [othersideofthis (hikaru)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikaru/gifts).



> This was written 1) back in August, before the start of the 2016-17 season 2) half a box deep into Bota's finest Merlot 3) with 1D's classic hit Stockholm Syndrome on repeat. Make of that what you will.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of Narrative, it was the age of foolishness, it was the very edge of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the 2016-2017 season, it was the season of Darkness, it was the draft class of hope, it was the winter of despair.

It was, in all fact, Connor McDavid’s second season in the NHL, and he had just been named captain of the Edmonton Oilers.

* * *

Taylor Hall had magic. This was unexpected for several reasons: the Oilers ten season playoff drought, Chiarelli’s unchecked god complex, the unlikely concept of magic itself, and Taylor’s patchy, moss-like beard were all strong contenders.

Still, the magic was there, if unnoticed by most; the parapsychological equivalent of a squatter burrowed in the drywall skimming cans of soup from the pantry. And thus when Taylor said things like: _I would give anything to be drafted_ , a distant echo would float back to him from the void beyond.

“ANYTHING?” The voice said.

“Anything,” Taylor begged, sick and scared and all of eighteen. It was difficult to comprehend the minor cosmic horror that was having a wish granted by the creature of the void. Many people regretted getting exactly what they wanted. Wishes looked better in the theoretical dressing room of the universe where the lighting was better and your pores weren’t quite so large.

So it came to be that Taylor was drafted to the Oilers.

Time slunk by, one crushingly depressing season blurring into the next until suddenly Taylor was twenty-three and heartbroken, drunk in a Taco Bell parking lot in the vast wilderness of Alberta.

 _I would give anything,_ Taylor said to the crushed boutonniere on the dash of his Prius, to each and every jet plane overheard that might be carrying Jordan Eberle away from Taylor to his honeymoon _. I’d give anything not to be alone_.

“ANYTHING?” A voice from beyond said.

“Anything,” Taylor said, resting his forehead against the steering column because he was heartsick and his whole body hurt with it. The unfairness of the universe weighed upon him heavily. It was also possible a chalupa weighed upon him heavily; chalupas were frequently mistaken for the weight of the universe.

So it came to be that nine months later a bouncing baby rookie arrived on Taylor’s doorstep.

“Hi,” Connor said. He was shaking slightly, like a tiny Northface-wearing dachshund confronted with an iceberg. Somewhere behind them in the sea of reporters a flashbulb went off. “I’m your new roommate?”

Taylor looked around at the writhing mass of reporters trampling his spice garden. He expected to find someone else lurking in his driveway: the prime minister, Sidney Crosby, maybe Shania Twain. But no--just Connor and a very harassed woman from the Oiler’s front office.

“Come on in,” Taylor said, stepping aside. “I’ll show you around.”

Connor McDavid wasn’t Jordan.

Connor McDavid ironed his jeans. Connor McDavid watched documentaries about shore birds for fun. Connor McDavid walked on water, but only if it was saltwater, and only if he thought no one was watching him. In short, a fairly typical first place pick.

Taylor missed Jordan’s laughter, he missed his stupid crocs lining the entryway in a rainbow of seasonally appropriate colors, he missed the solid Jordan-ness of him. It was ridiculous; there was no reason to get emotional over Jordan’s old One Direction CD getting stuck in the changer. Jordan had only married and moved across town, he hadn’t _died_.

Besides, even if things looked bleak, if the locker room was heavy with the oppressive misery of another shitty season, Taylor at least had someone to talk to. There was always a beat writer to be found rustling through the hedge. Taylor did wish they’d stop rooting through the trash, but at least he was never alone. He had Connor, he had the team, and for that Taylor was grateful.  

* * *

“Ference retiring is an opportunity,” Chiarelli said.

“Six years have just flown by, haven’t they?” Chiarelli said.

“The team is moving in a different direction,” Chiarelli said.

Taylor’s extensive media training failed him, voice wobbling when he asked,“and what direction would that be, sir?”

“A new direction. A fresh direction, one centered around our promising young talent.” He chuckled, and in the distance all the dogs of the city howled.

“...like the band?” Taylor said, struggling to connect the dots. It couldn’t be that with Ference gone, Chiarelli was looking for a new captain? Someone with seniority, someone to rally the team and drive them to the cup on the strength of #character and #grit?

“Sure. Like the band.” Chiarelli steepled his fingers. “Also we traded you to Jersey.”

* * *

 

So it came to be that, hunkered in a filthy corner of Newark Liberty International watching the Oilers take the ice for their first game of the season, the ‘C’ stitched to Connor McDavid’s jersey still white and new, Taylor did as he’d always done.

He made a wish.

* * *

Wishers often discovered that getting what they wanted had a price. Even in the endless garbage disposal of the cosmos it was impossible to make something entirely of nothing; there always remained a processing fee incurred by reshaping the fabric of the universe. Typically the amount of this fee depended on the scope of the wish, the number of federal agencies involved, and whether or not there was an episode of _Friends_ on. However, given that on any plane of existence there was usually an episode of _Friends_ on, ineffable cosmic mix-ups were bound to occur.

An example: Wednesday Connor stayed after practice before their game against the Leafs to work on his shooting. He told himself his backhand was rusty (it wasn’t) and absolutely nothing to do with the fact that his first game as captain was against Toronto (patently untrue) or that being alone in the house post-Taylor freaked him out (it did).

He had three wishes, low-level and constant, that he’d carried with him since reporters had started camping out at his games. 1) To play well. Most hockey players wished for this, with modest success. 2) To avoid injuries. This request was still being processed. 3) To not be alone. The wording of this last wished changed in accordance with how often Sidney Crosby screened Connor’s calls, but the feeling behind it was generally the same.

Now, in Edmonton, Connor shot his way through a mountain of pucks, trying to sweat out the anxiety crawling under his skin. The weight of expectation on his shoulders was an old friend, but captaincy had only added to the load. If he stood still too long Connor was sure he’d be crushed under it, so he kept skating, kept shooting, until the noise in his brain quieted. He still struggled to process the events of the week: Ference retired, Taylor traded, Connor stealing the ‘youngest captain in NHL history’ award from Gabe the Babe’s gorgeous and vaguely threatening fingers. He felt more alone than he’d ever been. It seemed wish number three had failed spectacularly, and now wish number two was crumbling beneath him as well.

“I think I need to visit the quiet room,” Connor said, because there was really no other explanation for having visions of Zayn Malik toweling himself off in Connor’s locker room. He was sitting in Yak’s stall, water dripping enticingly across his many tattoos. Connor was no stranger to odd sexual fantasies--who didn’t have dreams about Brent Burns and his beard, honestly--but boybands were firmly Taylor’s territory.

“Shower beer?” offered Niall fucking Horan, who was also inexplicably wet and inexplicably close, patting Connor with no small amount of sympathy. “Hazza’s got some of those little bendy straws with him if you like.”

“It’s not even noon,” Connor said, blank. Niall’s hand was warm and very real on his shoulder, not at all a figment of Connor’s imagination. On second thought--

“--actually.”

Niall laughed, “there’s a lad.”

Connor was going to kill Nuge--it had to be Nuge, at this point---for dumping Harry Styles in their media pen completely nude, and blissfully unaware of the three cable news cameras in the room as he explained to Liam Payne the deep philosophical meaning behind the _dicks out for Harambe_ tattoo curling across his shoulder. The only two things keeping his junk off of national television were a strategically placed boom mike and fact that, miraculously, the press hadn’t noticed him yet. The cameras, the microphones, all of it was laser-focused on Connor.

“How are you handling the captaincy?” A reporter, or possibly a homeless man asked, his breathing uncomfortably close and his eyes wild. He narrowly avoided shoving his mic up Connor’s nose, but only just.

“You know how it is, one shift at a time” Connor said, distracted. Behind them, the spectre of One Direction continued to lurk in the team showers without apology. The team--his team, Connor’s team--was nowhere to be found. This was unusual. Louis had discovered Caggie’s pristine sound system, and was running his soapy hands all over it. This was worrying for several reasons, not least that the sound system was a coveted object in the locker room, and Drake ‘Caligula’ Caggiula hadn’t earned his nickname lightly. Nuge wouldn't dare risk it in a prank.

The opening beats of Ciara’s _Goodies_ shook the locker room floor, tipping the richter scales of Northwest Edmonton, and causing the pack or reporters to shuffle about nervously.  

Another reporter crowded Connor up against the stall, and Connor got the distinct feeling he was rifling through Connor’s pockets for loose change. “What’s the atmosphere in the room like going into tomorrow’s game?” The man came up with a stick of gum and popped it into his mouth, smacking nosily. “Any toxic interpersonal relationships destroying the team from inside?”

“Um,” Conor said, grasping for an answer. “One shift at a time, right?”

Unnoticed by the scrum, Niall and Zayn had made brisk business of stuffing Louis’ jockstrap with bills as he strips on one of the benches. The Deadspin reporter stared right through them, a glazed look in his eye.

A third reporter cut her colleague off by driving the wedge of her heel into his foot, much to Connor’s relief.

“In reference to your ongoing rivalry, Austin Matthews was quoted yesterday as saying ‘ _McDavid can eat my entire ass_.’” She looked at Connor expectantly. “What are your thoughts?”

“Well, as Austin knows I prefer to lead by example,” Connor managed to stutter out before the room descended into complete madness.

* * *

“You alright there mate?” Liam Payne peered over the edge of the empty tub. Connor wasn’t sure how long he’d been there, staring at him earnestly with his youth pastor smile and his waxed chest. He needed sleep.

“I’m going to go home, take an ambien, and when I wake up this will have all been a dream,” Connor said, climbing out of the tub with all the remaining dignity he possessed.

“Right on,” said Liam. “Sounds like a party.”

* * *

 Eight hours later Connor awoke, unsure if a lack of sleep or the constant existential horror of existence made it seem like the washing machine was haunted. There were banging noises coming from the laundry room, the kind that only occurred in horror movies where nubile young teens were systematically dismembered. Connor was found of all four of his limbs. He’d like to continue having them attached.  

Connor, though he would never admit it aloud, hated this house. It rattled in strange, uncanny ways when the wind blew, the bathroom was a pastel nautical nightmare, and most importantly it still felt like _Taylor’s_. The suddenness of the trade meant all Taylor’s things lay scattered around the house like a half-finished sentence, with Connor never quite sure what he’d stumble across next: a bag of okra defrosting in the cupboard? Check. A razor forgotten in the shower? Check.  A grocery list in Taylor’s messy scrawl that simply read: TURDUCKEN? Check.  Each time he wandered into the living room he expected to find Taylor watching reruns of The Bachelorette and crying into a glass of wine, and each time it was a small shock to realize that Taylor wasn’t coming back. He was just....gone.

Connor crept into the kitchen in search of food. He considered calling Jordan, who was a dad and in theory a responsible adult with his life together. Except, his number wasn’t in Connor’s phone, which was odd, so Connor tried Lucic next; if anyone in the NHL could fight a ghost surely it would be Milan fucking Lucic. Except, same as Jordan, Connor’s phone had gone and scrubbed Lucic from his contacts.

With a heavy feeling of foreboding, he tried Mitch Marner--the Leafs were in town, he might as well be useful--and experienced a profound, immediate regret when Marner answered with, “Matty’s sperm bank, you squeeze ‘em we freeze ‘em.”

There’s an offended squawk in the background and the sound of a scuffle.

“Marns,” Connor said, the first thorny spikes of a migraine already brewing in his temple. “This is serious. I think there’s a ghost in my house.”

Three uninterrupted minutes of laughter later Marner hung up on him.

“I don’t know what I expected,” Connor said to the forlorn chicken breast thawing on the counter. The chicken breast said nothing in reply, but looking at it reminded Connor of Taylor, which in turn reminded Connor that Taylor was doing penance in Jersey.

Taylor, who was no longer a member of the Oilers.

Sure enough, his number was still in Connor’s phone. A small tendril of hope curled in Connor’s chest.

“You’ve reached Taylor Hall,” said Taylor Hall, doing a poor imitation of an answering service. “I’m not available to answer the phone right now, but if you leave your name and number after the beep I’ll get back to you.”

“Taylor, I know it’s you,” Connor yelled at his phone. “Are you haunting the house?”

“BEEP,” Taylor said, cheerful, and the line went dead. 

* * *

 Standing in the doorway of the house with his overnight bag and his gear, Connor tried to focus on the facts, arrange them into some sort of list. He liked lists; lists made sense. He did not like this list in particular, however, because this list went something like:

  1. Taylor traded
  2. Naked popstars in the media pen
  3. Concussion???
  4. Team gone, their numbers gone, no idea where or how or why
  5. Taylor haunting the house from New Jersey. (Connor didn’t know much about New Jersey, but he had the feeling it was a place where trans-national hauntings could and did  happen.)
  6. There were, in fact, five new numbers in Connor’s phone.



The car turned into the driveway, sending beat reporters scuttling away from the garbage bins and into the hedge, their eyes flashing red in the beam of the headlights. The baseline rattled the windows of the car with the best of Westlife. Connor thought he heard the house whine behind him.

“Get in loser,” Louis Tomlinson shouted from the driveway, hanging out the side of his best friend’s ride while Harry fiddled with the stereo. “We’ve got a game tomorrow.” 

The house whined, louder this time. Streetlights up and down the block sputtered and went dark. Around them the trees began to shake, radiating the same unhappiness that permeated the house.

Connor got in the car. 


	2. but now together we're alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ we just don't know

 Newark, New Jersey: 

 "You have to promise you won't be weird about this," said Beau Bennet. "I'm not taking off the child lock until you pinky-promise."

Taylor shrunk down into the bucket seat of Beau's puke-green Fiat. Beau looked nice enough, but his reputation and the Pens IR list preceded him. Taylor didn't want another curse on his shoulders if he could avoid it. The bar was crowded even on a weeknight. Shadowy figures danced across the glow of the Fiat's headlights, many of them sporting tube socks and an unnatural number of arms. Taylor felt the weight of their gaze like a tangible thing.

 They pinky swore.

"THE PACT IS COMPLETE," came a familiar voice from beyond.

"Ignore him, he's just excited." Beau gave him what he probably thought was a reassuring smile. His canines were uncomfortably pointy. 

"HELLO ANGELS," said the voice, who did indeed sound excited. "WON'T YOU COME IN? IT'S KARAOKE NIGHT."

 

* * *

 

Alberta, Canada:

As hard as he tried, Connor found he could not run fast enough to travel through time, and thus had to be physically present for the first Edmonton-Toronto game of the season. 

Connor managed to persuade Harry to dress out in Brossy’s pads through a combination of tears, elaborate promises of sexual favors, and a bag of something found in Leon’s stall labelled ‘greenies’ which Connor suspected were dog treats. He would've felt guilty about feeding them to Harry if Harry didn’t love them almost as much as it turned out he loved goalie pads.

“I look like a transformer,” Harry said, twerking experimentally. His pants kept sliding off his skinny waist. “Sick!”

“Mhmm,” Connor said, bullying him into a position where he could just fucking tape the pants up already. “Just try and look big in the net. Intimidating.”

“I can do intimidating,” said Harry as if Connor had not personally witnessed him crying over the end of Spice World last night.

“Or,” Connor offered, “Just stand there and don't leave the crease.” Harry nodded.

Five minutes into the first period:

“Harry, stop moving the net around,” Connor shouted from where he was sandwiched between the boards by two large dump trucks masquerading as the Leaf’s defensemen. Nearby Liam finally managed to hit someone, only knock himself over and then apologize. It was Canadian enough in spirit that Connor forgave him.

“I’m making it harder to score!” Harry shouted back.

“I can’t have you tossed for being a dumbass, we’re already down one man” Connor said, jerking his thumb at the penalty box where Zayn was enjoying a cigarette. “Leave the net alone.”

“I’ll save you babe.” Niall swooped in. Connor watched in horrified fascination as the puck disappeared down his pants, and Niall disappeared under a pile of Toronto-blue jerseys.

Safely ensconced in the penalty box Zayn lit another cigarette and saluted.

 

* * *

 

Alberta, Canada, But Faster: 

Unable to shake a lifetime of early practices, Connor found himself up and roaming Harry and Louis' shared apartment with nothing better to do than help Harry wash his laundry in the nearby creek. It was lovely, as much as that meant in Edmonton, through the fog of depression that was the Oiler's current season. The sky was blue. The toads were singing. Harry's housecoat was an aggressive, yet tasteful, riot of florals. 

It could have been a perfectly decent morning, if he hadn't noticed Harry’s reflection was missing. Connor blinked, but only his face stared back at them from the surface of the creek. It was no trick of the light, or if it was, it was a trick that had also wiped away Harry’s shadow.

Connor had initially dismissed the internet’s insistence that ‘Harry Styles was actually eight different paid actors and a corn toad having a secret tryst with John Cena' as complete bullshit. He was now forced to reassess this opinion, and found he did not like the direction his conclusions led him.

“Lavender sachet?” Harry offered him a ball of cheesecloth from the unknown depths of his housecoat. His housecoat of lies. His skin twinkled merrily in the sunlight, whiter than the butts of the Canadian national team.

“Harry,” Connor gathered his courage to the sticking place. “Your skin is glittering.”

“I moisturize,” Harry said, even as his shape began to flicker around the edges.

“Your wikipedia page still says you’re eighteen.” Connor should’ve figured it out sooner; who else could make the floral housecoat Harry wore look threatening?

“Wikipedia isn’t a reliable source to cite.”

“How long have you been eighteen?” Connor's hands shook, and he jammed them into the pockets of his coat hoping Harry wouldn’t notice.  

There was a long silence. “A while,” the thing which may or may not have been Harry Styles finally admitted.

Connor's voice broke, like he was thirteen and had taken a puck to the throat. “I know what you are.”

“I don't think you do,” Harry smiled, slow and reptilian. His form flickered, and revealed a jenga-tower of horrifying images layered one over the other. Connor's imagination was not expansive enough to fully comprehend this; his brain was nothing but a loop of _CORN TOAD CORN TOAD CORN TOAD_ in bright flashing letters. 

"What did you do with the team?"

“I am the team,” Harry said, and his slow Cheshire drawl curled around the words until they sat heavy, ominous, in Connor’s thoughts. “But if you're referring to the lads who were here before us, well. They all made wishes. They wished they weren’t playing for the Oilers, so they’re not.” Harry shrugged. “I just helped them get what they wanted. As for where they are now: haven’t the foggiest!”

“What about him?” Connor pulled up team photo of the Devils and pointed out Taylor, whose smile gave the impression of a hostage begging for help with their eyes.

Harry blinked. “Oh, I know him! He bought me a bunch of drinks at the bar with the funny name when we were in Jersey.”

Connor was, if possible, even more confused. “Taylor bought you drinks?”

“Is that his name? Weird bloke, 4/10 would not shag.” Harry rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Maybe 5/10 if I squinted and he were standing me tequila.”

“A _four?_ ” Connor was a little insulted on Taylor’s behalf. Harry looked down at the photo again.

“What, him? No, no, the guy next to him. I think his name was...Andy?”

Harry pointed to a bland, balding man to Taylor’s right. Connor couldn’t have picked him out of a police lineup. Connor forgot his face even as he looked at him.

“Andy Greene, captain of the New Jersey Devils,” Connor read off. “Huh.”

Logically Connor knew that _someone_ must be captaining the Devils, but he’d seen more press on Sasquatch than Andy Greene. Maybe Andy Greene was Sasquatch? Connor couldn't say for sure. He’d never seen the two of them in the same place at the same time.

“Definitely a four,” Harry said. “Glad I didn’t give him a hand in the gents, then.”  

Connor forced himself to disregard that and instead consider their standings--an embarrassing 0-0-9--before coming to a decision.

“Harry, give Liam the ‘A’ would you? I’ve got a plane I need to catch.”

 

* * *

 

Newark, New Jersey:

“Are you sure this is the right place?” Connor frowned down at his phone again. Harry had been kind of vague in giving directions, clinging to landmarks like ‘that twisty tree’ or ‘yeah yeah yeah, nah.’

Connor’s Uber driver Meredith--a middle-aged woman with a painful disinterest in all things hockey--rolled her eyes in a way that rolled her entire head. “I know you’re not from around here, but there aren’t a lot of bars in Jersey with that name.”

Meredith pointed to the sign. _The Crease._ Connor had been to funeral homes that looked more inviting. There was a halfhearted attempt at decoration in the corner that might be have been a giant peach or might have been an ass. It was difficult to say at this distance.

Meridith all but threw Connor out of her aging hatchback and peeled out of the parking lot, leaving Connor to avoid the empty Molson cans and used condoms that blew through the deserted parking lot like tumbleweed.

Because Connor’s life was one long cosmic joke, a sign on the front door demanded in large red letters: OUT OF ORDER. PLEASE ENTER FROM BEHIND

He burrowed deeper into his Otters hoodie and slunk around back, feeling the last additional shred of dignity he didn't know he had turn to pocket lint.

The bar was dark and cave-like, which Connor expected. There were no caged go-go boys or visible stripper poles, which Connor had not expected. Instead, he was greeted by a creature at the bar with the wings of a bat, the horns of a goat, and a face so great and terrible that Connor couldn’t have conceived it in his wildest dreams, and thus never thought to expect it at all.  

“OH,” said the creature in a voice that made Connor tremble. “IT’S YOU.”

Shadows around the edges of the bar tilted in, listening closely.

“I’m looking for an Andy Greene,” Connor said, addressing himself to the dartboard plastered with Michel Therrien’s face that hung over the monster’s shoulder. “Please. It’s important.

The shadows laughed. 

"WE ARE ALL ANDY GREENE," said the thing, in a voice that made Connor's teeth hurt. "IT REALLY DEPENDS ON HOW BACKED UP THE I-195 IS, AND IF GEMINI IS ASCENDANT OR DECENDANT."  

"That's..." Connor trailed off. 

"INDEED." The thing nodded. "WE ARE ALSO MARK GIORDANO, JOHN TAVARES, THE THIRD AND FOURTH LINE WINNIPEG JETS, AND 66.6 PERCENT OF THE AVES FRONT OFFICE STAFF. IT GETS CONFUSING SOMETIMES, BUT WE HAVE AN EXCEL SHEET." 

"That's Excel-ent," Connor said, before he could stop himself.

"And A Chore Wheel," another shadow chimed in helpfully. "Fortune Favors The Prepared Meat."

 "I think we remember that one differently," Connor said, trying to remember if his media training had covered Eldritch Horrors in their emergency segment on dealing with Don Cherry. "Could you maybe tell me where my team disappeared to? One moment they were at the rink, the next moment they were gone. It's dropped us to last in the league."

"HA," said the shadow Connor mentally had pegged as Mostly Andy. "OH WAIT, YOU WERE SERIOUS? THEY'RE IN THE VOID. I COULD MAKE A FEW CALLS, BUT IT'LL TAKE _AT LEAST_ THREE TO FIVE BUSINESS DAYS TO EVEN PROCESS A REQUEST." 

"The void," Connor said. "That--I, are they alright?" 

"DOING ABOUT AS WELL AS THE REST OF US," said Mostly Andy. "IT'S NOT LIKE THEY WERE DOING SO HOT BEFORE BEING RIPPED FROM THIS PLANE OF EXISTENCE, THOUGH."

"Why would you--" Connor bit down on the frustration and outrage that was the completion of that thought. The shadows stirred, murmuring to themselves. Mostly Andy smiled.

"WHY WOULD I TAKE THEM? THEY MADE A WISH, CONNOR. AND WE REMEMBER WHAT IT WAS LIKE TO PLAY, BEFORE WE BECAME THE THINGS WE ARE NOW. HOCKEY TOOK EVERYTHING. IT WHITTLED US DOWN, CHEWED US UP, AND SPAT US OUT. THEN IT FORGOT US. OR MAYBE IT NEVER REMEMBERED US. MAYBE IT TOOK OUR BLOOD AND OUR BONES TO MAKE IT'S BREAD, AND TURNED AROUND AND CALLED US MONSTROUS WHEN WE BECAME THE THINGS HOCKEY WANTED US TO BE."

Connor felt the bile rise in his throat. "You were hockey players?" 

"Once," said a new voice. A human voice. 

The shadows faded, and Connor saw a man behind the bar. He was older than Connor, with a beard that screamed chronically depressed lumberjack, and a collection of scars across his knuckles and jaw that screamed Goon. He spoke softly to Connor, like Connor was a rookie about to loose his lunch before a big game, and more than anything that sent chills down Connor's spine. 

He turned fully, and Connor saw that he wore a name tag that read _Ritchie_ , in messy black sharpie. 

"The weird shit, the scary shit, that shit you're trying to avoid noticing?" Ritchie said, staring at Connor the way a snake might stare at a mouse, and coax it into its mouth. "You can push it aside, but sooner or later you'll have to do more than look at it out of the corner of your eye. Look around the league: you got guys that take a hit and you never see them again, guys that should be benched instead of shoved into the grinder, guys with so many concussions they can't tell you what year it is. Pierre McGuire. Whatever the fuck the combine is supposed to be."

He poured Connor what looked like a Shirley Temple and pushed it toward the end of the bar. Connor latched onto it. The glass sweated against the palm of his hand.

"None of it's normal." Ritchie continued, soft, like a caress before a slap. "They treat us like things, and throw us away when we break on the wrong side of thirty. They push us to fight, and then refuse to let us show emotion. They send top prospects out to Edmonton, and then choke them slow, like weeds, and then do it again the next year."

"I'm not a weed." Connor said, flushing. He knew better than to drink the Shirley Temple, but he picked the cherry out anyway and fiddled with the stem, rolling it between his thumb and finger. "No one's choking me. It's...the opposite, really."

“It's cute that you think that,” Richie said, with a bitter twist to his mouth that had Connor curling instinctively inward. “I'm not going to pretend like this is some Red Pill, Blue Pill thing. Just be careful. Get your head up. And watch your back, don’t trust anyone else to do it for you.”

“I’m captain,” Connor started. “My team--”

Richie cut him off with the wave of a hand. “They won’t. Trust me. Neither will Chiarelli. The biggest mistake you can make is thinking you’re indispensable. You think it's hard right now? You think the spotlight is so bright, no one even notices when the rest of your team disappears? Wait a season. Maybe two. Anyone can be replaced, even a captain.”

Connor had opened his mouth to argue before he remembered Taylor. Ference. His jaw clicked shut. Richie smiled at him; it stretched the scarring across his jaw. Connor had first looked at those scars and thought: goon. He looked closer, now.

“Why are you telling me this?”

Richie shrugged. “Once a captain always a captain I guess.”

“Who--”

“Time for you to go home.” The man clapped, and a wave of black burst from his hands, jagged and uneven. As it crashed over Connor the bar vanished, and he was left standing alone in the empty parking lot outside the Oilers rink, watching the wind whip plastic bags into oncoming traffic. He dug through his pockets and found a ten dollar bill and a dirty napkin with the checker cab number scrawled under a hasty note:

_Abuse of power comes as no surprise. Keep your head up, kid. --MR_

 

* * *

 

Alberta, Canada:  

Jordan frowned at him over the desecrated remains of a burrito bowl. "You okay dude?"

Connor made a face and pushed his salad away. He'd chosen Chipotle in the vain hope he could blame the unsettled feeling in his stomach on e-coli. As promised, the team had been restored, for all that the Edmonton media continued to ignore their existence. Connor's house was obligingly quiet, like a television suddenly muted.  

It was as if nothing had ever happened. Connor had received exactly what he wished for, and yet he still felt like he was waiting for something. He wondered if Jordan felt it too. 

The hairs on the back of Connor's neck prickled. "Have you heard from Taylor recently?"

The radio cut out. The diners around them flickered, then disappeared like whisps of smoke. Jordan's eyes went blank, glassy, and he stared through Connor, his eyes fixed on something in the middle distance. 

"Who?" He said.

"Never mind," Connor said, throat dry. "It's nothing." 

 

* * *

 

Newark, New Jersey:

Taylor woke the next morning with a jackhammer of a headache, and the voice of a three-thousand year old dick-sucking chainsmoker.  

There was a man standing in Taylor Hall’s kitchen. He looked like he’d just come from a bar fight and he was drinking Taylor’s orange juice straight from the carton while wearing Taylor’s house slippers. The nice slippers, the ones with little plush raccoon faces.

“These are hilarious,” the man said, and wiggled his toes so that the little raccoon heads bounced up and down. “Where did you get these? I need to send them to Kopi, he’ll _die_.”

“Um,” Taylor said.

“Richie,” The man held out a card. “From the bar. You remember me?”

“Um,” Taylor said. 

“I heard you got shitcanned, and I wanted to make you an offer.” 

“Um?” Taylor said. That had not been what he'd expected Richie to say. 

“There are more people out there like us, Taylor. Players who get broken and pushed aside. Players used up and wrung out before they're even thirty. Players who...fall through the cracks.”

He stared at Taylor, and Taylor could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. The air around Richie crackled, burned, and bled dark. Shapes flitted in and out of focus, a kaleidoscope of memories that played across Taylor’s cheap Ikea cabinets like a horror movie as he stared, transfixed.

“We’re going to change things,” Richie said.  

Taylor took the card.

 


End file.
